


Of Blind Angels and All-Seeing Witches

by Allemande



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Crowley is Stubborn as Hell, M/M, Matchmaker Anathema Device, Newton Pulsifer is Adorable and Helpful, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22002166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allemande/pseuds/Allemande
Summary: In her wildest, witchiest dreams, Anathema had never seen anything like it. Aziraphale was anangel– and she had known that he was, of course she had, but she had not seen him like this, his wings unfolded, his body seemingly light as a feather, his form and his gaze suffused with an entirely otherworldly glow as he hovered ten feet above the ground, looking down at –– at himself and Crowley...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 200





	Of Blind Angels and All-Seeing Witches

**Author's Note:**

> So I discover in posting this that "Matchmaker Anathema Device" is an established tag, ie. a trope? Oops. However, I haven't seen any stories of this type myself, so I'm hoping it's not too derivative... and a little amusing. A different take on the whole "How does Aziraphale find out" thing too, I think. First Good Omens fanfic. Enjoy!

* * *

**Of Blind Angels and All-Seeing Witches**

* * *

If you had asked Crowley why he went over for tea (and later, gin) to Anathema Device's place one week after the end of the world, he would have told you that it wasn't because he liked to socialize or because the witch was at all interesting to be around. True, she was a little less predictable than your average 25-year-old, and she had an entertaining habit of being completely honest even if the honest thing to say wasn't always the nice thing to say.

He did like that in a person. But still. He only went over for tea (and once again, more emphatically, for gin) because he liked to encourage occult interests in humans wherever he could, at least in the sensible ones. He felt sort of duty-bound to take a witch under his wing (as it were) and teach her one or two things about how to _really_ make proper potions, influence the weather, and perhaps visit people in their nightmares. Well. They weren't there yet, and he wasn't sure she would be overly interested in that bit, but one could always hope.

At any rate, she knew quite a bit about spells, ley-lines and so forth, having come from essentially good witching stock, but it had been watered down over the centuries and a lot of fairly ridiculous notions had crept in, and it was Crowley's duty, he felt, to correct erroneous assumptions, especially when they were being pronounced in a self-assured, superior manner.

It was the best part about teaching, he mused, watching your student's face fall as they realized that a long-held belief of theirs was essentially rubbish.

They were in the process of testing a couple of potions on Anathema's frankly pathetic boyfriend, and Crowley was enjoying himself immensely, watching Newt the duck waddle around the garden as he looked up at them reproachfully, somehow still managing to look as though he wore glasses. Anathema was trying (but mostly failing) not to smile as she turned him back into a man with a complicated swish of her shawl.

“Honestly,” Newt quacked and covered his mouth with his hand, and Crowley laughed.

“I'm sorry, sweetie,” Anathema said and gave him a big smack on the lips, which made Crowley's laughter die in his throat as he rolled his eyes. “We got a little carried away there.”

Newt shook his head despairingly and went back into the house to go and fiddle with his toy airplanes, or whatever he did in there.

“Pity,” Crowley drawled as he stretched on the bench. “I was just thinking he'd look good as a heron.”

Anathema, sitting down next to him, slapped his arm lightly, the sort of behaviour only ever to be tolerated from a witch. “We should give him a break. He's played along so well until now.”

“He's a good little pet, that's for sure.”

“Oh, shut up. I know he's a weirdo. But so am I, and I think I kind of love him a little bit.”

Crowley sighed. “Humans. So essentially crippled by love. You could be so much more, if there weren't _Love_ to hold you back.”

“Seriously?” She frowned at him. “As though _you_ didn't know what _that_ was like.”

He stared at her. And then, for emphasis, he took off his sunglasses and stared at her some more.

Any other human would have flinched at the sight of his snake eyes, but Anathema just stared back.

* * *

Aziraphale spent the first month after the end of the world reading a lot.

Well. It wasn't as though he hadn't always read a lot, but now it was difficult to get him to even put a book down. He read as he walked. He read as he ate. And he read when Crowley came by for drinks. 

Crowley was trying not to be offended. He knew that the angel had been profoundly shaken by the events of the last month, and especially by his brief visit to hell, even though he wouldn't admit it. And when Aziraphale wasn't feeling up to par, he buried his face in books.

He did look up briefly when Crowley said that he was going to America with Anathema to help her move the rest of her things to England.

“You want to see if she's got any interesting occult artefacts lying around?” he said, smiling.

“Well, who better than me to help her tell the interesting ones from the rubbish?”

“True enough. When will you be back?”

“Sometime next week, I'd wager.”

Aziraphale made a small noise of assent somewhere in his throat and returned to his book. Crowley thought he'd better leave him to it.

* * *

Crowley quite liked to fly on a plane from time to time. It was astonishing what humans had accomplished in such a relatively short time – yes, they could _fly_ , but more importantly, they could cramp hundreds of people into one small aircraft and feed them artificial air, turning everyone into passive-aggressive arseholes and still making everyone believe that this was the only way to travel and that they had saved themselves a lot of time and bother. It was magnificent.

“Why are you looking so smug?” Anathema asked as they were settled into their seats, which conveniently stretched a little wider than the others (he didn't see her complaining).

“Oh, just soaking up all the low-level aggression,” Crowley smiled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Anathema snorted as, right on cue, three people to their left started bickering about overhead locker space. “Not your doing, though, is it?”

“Nope. Humans do this all by themselves. That's what's so glorious about it all.”

She shook her head, looking amused, and buried her nose in a book. Crowley rolled his eyes (why did he surround himself with book nerds?) and started flipping through the on-flight film programme.

Two rather disappointing films and one very pleasant nap later, they arrived in Los Angeles, where they were picked up by Anathema's brother. He looked rather intimidated by Crowley, although when he realized that this was not the English-boyfriend-who-had-stolen-Ani, he looked relieved.

“So, what, you two are friends?”

“I'd describe it as more of a student-teacher-relationship,” Crowley said, hoping to rile Anathema because she was so annoyingly unflappable, but she just shrugged.

“We stopped the end of the world together,” she said. “He's a demon.”

“Right,” said the brother, clearly used to his family saying things like that but either not believing them or – oh, Crowley thought, probing into his mind, not giving a single fuck. How refreshing.

At Anathema's impressive-slash-oppressive family manor in Malibu, Crowley was introduced to the rest of the family, and much to his chagrin, the mother definitely gave a fuck and would have liked nothing better than a painstaking recount of the whole end-of-the-world business. Crowley limited himself to a few choice remarks, making sure that Anathema featured in all of them and came out looking glorious, which seemed to be enough.

“Right,” said Anathema, closing the door to her room behind them when they had finally escaped. “Sorry about that. And, uh, thanks for the compliments.”

“No problem. Although I was just trying to get rid of her, you know.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I figured. Are you always this charming?”

“Demon,” he reminded her, surveying her over the top of his sunglasses, and she smiled.

“Yeah, but there's got to be something to you if Aziraphale hangs out with you. I mean, he's a really nice guy from what I've seen.”

Crowley shrugged, flopping down on her bed with some books he'd randomly picked from her shelf. “Not as nice as you'd think, sometimes. And we're the only ones of our kind on earth, so I guess we sort of had to stick together.”

“Really? No other angels or demons down... or up... here with you?”

“Not that we know of, anyway,” said Crowley, lazily flicking through _Spells, Spices and Spectres_ by Winifred Warwick. “I mean, they walk the earth from time to time if they have to, urgent commissions or the odd successful summoning, but most of them prefer living in Heaven or Hell.”

“Huh. Well, that narrows down a lot of the books that I'd consider taking back, then,” said Anathema, ever the pragmatist, and chucked a handful of them into the bin. Crowley laughed.

“This is rubbish, by the way,” he said. She gazed over to the book he was reading.

“Oh yeah, I figured. But I like the illustrations.” She shrugged apologetically and stood on tiptoe to retrieve several boxes from on top of her wardrobe. “The books are going to be the worst bit to sort through. I mean, apart from those terrible ones,” she gestured to the bin. “But I guess I'm kind of sentimental with books. Even if I know they're worth nothing, sometimes I really have to keep them anyway.”

“Oh, I know _that_ type,” said Crowley, half-despairingly, half-fondly, before he could stop himself.

“Aziraphale?”

“Don't even get me started,” Crowley said, trying to opt for a disdainful tone of voice this time. “He'd much rather rip out one of his wings than give up his books.”

“But you put up with his idiosyncrasies anyway,” she said casually, her head almost buried in one of her boxes.

“Stop it.”

She emerged, looking innocent. “Stop what?”

He glared at her. “You know exactly what I mean. Every time we meet, you bring him up. You keep insinuating... things that aren't there, so I would most _un_ kindly ask you to go boil your head. In fact, I'd be more than happy to do the boiling for you.”

“Things that aren't there,” she repeated, unfazed. “Hm. Not out in the open, maybe.”

“Shut your mouth, witch,” he said, giving her what he was sure was one of his more dangerous looks.

She shrugged, returning to her box. “Have it your way. But you're missing out, you know.”

Crowley, who still, annoyingly, enjoyed Anathema Device's company more than he had another human's in a long time, resolved then and there not to grace her insinuations with any reply whatsoever. Replying obviously led him nowhere, she was not to be intimidated, and he had no intention whatsoever of discussing her favourite subject with her. So he would ignore her, and carry on.

They sorted through a fair number of things before dinner, and then Crowley went off to find a hotel (there was no way he was accepting her mother's invitation). The next week would be trying, he was sure. Perhaps he should spend a few days on the coast and come back just in time to take Anathema back home.

* * *

If you had asked Crowley and Aziraphale, demon and angel, former Adversaries and now official Chums Who Enjoyed Walking This Earth, why they went to Adam Young's baptism, they would have told you it wasn't out of affection for the boy or any desire to be back in that part of England, thank you very much. It was solely for entertainment purposes, and in Aziraphale's case, Crowley suspected, a secretly raised middle finger towards Upstairs. 

(Not that They didn't welcome people being baptised, but when it was the Antichrist, well, it was kind of like rubbing salt into the wound.)

“It's not as though you need to be baptised to be one of God's children,” Aziraphale had dutifully told Adam over the phone when he had invited them. “You all are, you see. It's your choices that determine where you go, after the end.”

Adam, apparently, had said something about it making sense to him if he was born as the son of Him Downstairs, in order to balance the scales, establish himself as his own person or some teenager bullshit like that. Crowley had laughed himself silly when Aziraphale had told him that they were going to the Antichrist's baptism, and had wholeheartedly approved of the whole ridiculous scheme. Aziraphale had shaken his head, but smiled at him fondly and a tiny bit gleefully.

So here they were at the post-baptism garden party organized by the Antichrist's incredibly human parents. Crowley, having had his ear chewed off for the last half hour by the boy's adoptive mother, was starting to see why Adam had turned out the way he had. She was full of good sense and kindness and goodness, and she was incredibly boring.

“So where do you know Adam from?” she asked, and Crowley was just about to deliver the previously agreed-upon story about a school project a few years back (Adam's friends remembered their faces a little bit, as children unfortunately tended to do, so they had thought it a convenient cover story) when he caught sight of Anathema, who was evidently quizzing Aziraphale about something. Oh no.

“School project,” he kept it short and to the point. “Excuse me.”

Far more casually than the situation warranted, he strolled over to the only two people at the party who could hold his interest for more than a minute. Well, apart from Adam, perhaps, who was full of incredibly entertaining contradictions.

“So you can actually sense love?” she was asking, and Crowley's stomach did a double-flip backwards.

“All the virtues,” Aziraphale confirmed, smiling as Crowley joined them. “Even in demons.”

“None there to speak of,” Crowley said with what he hoped was suitable nonchalance.

“Oh, I beg to differ.” Aziraphale lowered his voice conspiratorially as he leaned towards Anathema. “Crowley hates any suggestion of it, but he is far too good for Hell, you see. That's why he's better off where he is right now.”

“Which sort of gives you an idea of why Aziraphale is better off on earth, too,” Crowley couldn't resist teasing.

Aziraphale cleared his throat pointedly. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Anathema smiled as she looked between the two of them, and Crowley lowered his sunglasses and gave her a murderous look just in case. She raised an eyebrow at him, but it didn't look like she was about to pry further.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, “You asked me about love.”

Oh, for fuck's sake.

“I did,” she smiled, avoiding Crowley's eyes entirely.

“Surely you don't need any pointers when it comes to young Newton's regard for you,” Aziraphale said, and they watched as the man in question helped Mrs Young carry out more dishes, then went back to what looked like a very amiable conversation with one of the men from the army base. Every now and then, Newt would glance over and give her a shy little smile.

“Oh,” Anathema said, going slightly pink. “No, I guess I don't.” She paused. “So you can sense... it... between the two of us?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale smiled. “It's rather exquisit. Like a cherry tree in full bloom.”

Crowley felt like it was his duty, as a demon, to groan, while Anathema went even pinker. However, the witch – Crowley was finding out to his dismay – was far wilier than even he had suspected. After another pause, which Crowley thought might very well have been for effect, she said casually, “Must be pretty confusing when such an emotion is directed at you.”

“What?” If Aziraphale had been human, Crowley was sure he would have blushed. Now, he just looked adora- no! suitably flustered.

“Six thousand years you've been on earth, you said,” she continued, all wide-eyed innocence. “There must have been tons of people to throw themselves at you, over the years. Centuries. Millennia. That must have been weird, I guess. When someone's in love with you and you can sense it.”

Crowley cleared his throat then. He could not let this continue. “Perhaps you'd like to go pry in other people's affairs,” he hissed.

“Don't be such a pest, my dear,” said Aziraphale mildly, which shut him up. “I don't mind. In response to your question, Anathema, I, er, can't. Sense it very well at all when it's directed at me. I'm not saying it _has_ been, in the past. I just...” 

Oh for crying out loud. He was actually embarrassed at the suggestion that someone might have been in love with him over the millennia. Crowley wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him. And possibly, silence that silly mouth.

“People must have told you,” Anathema persisted.

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “And I never believed them. And then I came to understand that I couldn't feel it. Only when I'm out of the equation, as it were.” He smiled, and Crowley could tell that he was keen to leave this subject. (So was Crowley. About five hours ago.) “Just another one of Her ineffable doings, I suppose.”

“Makes sense,” Anathema said matter-of-factly. “You wouldn't want to be distracted from your missions.”

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale. “Well! Shall we see what's for dessert?” 

Crowley nodded, not trusting himself to speak, shooting Anathema another venomous look as they went. Oh, if anyone deserved to be bitten, it was most certainly her.

* * *

The drive back was quiet, at least after a while. Aziraphale kept up a steady chatter at first, sharing his impressions of the baptism itself (which Crowley had not attended on account of it being in a bloody church), his observations of Adam and his group of friends (whom he perceived as very grounding influences), of Adam's parents (he was inclined to agree with Crowley that they were dreadful bores, although not in so many words), and of Anathema and Newt (“a very interesting couple”).

However, getting nothing but a few words in reply from Crowley every time, Aziraphale was silent after a while, and they listened to some music.

When Crowley dropped the angel off at the bookshop – he was so eager to get away, he miracled the passenger-side door open and waited impatiently in the driver's seat, drumming his fingers on the wheel – Aziraphale made to get out of the car, then paused.

“Are you angry with me?”

Crowley gazed at him in surprise, although he was finding it difficult to look at the angel right now. 

“Why should I be angry?”

“I don't know. But you've hardly said two words to me ever since we left.”

“I'm just tired,” Crowley lied easily. “Too much socializing.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, sounding unconvinced. “You don't think I shared too much with Anathema, do you? I mean, she's sort of your student and perhaps you were going for a less... open approach when it comes to explaining occult – or ethereal – beings.”

Crowley had to look again. The angel – damn him – was looking so insecure, so eager to remain in his good graces.

“It's fine, angel.” He made himself smile. “You didn't say anything too revealing.” Though enlightening – yes, certainly.

Aziraphale smiled back, looking relieved. “All right. Shall we meet for lunch tomorrow?”

“Ah,” Crowley said. “I've got a thing. I'll get back to you.”

“All right. Good night, Crowley.”

“Good night, angel.”

* * *

_Finally_ some time alone to think.

Crowley flopped down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Had he assumed that Aziraphale knew? Yes, he had to admit to himself that he had. He'd never seen any evidence of it, of course, but he'd just thought that was because Aziraphale was embarrassed by the emotions he could feel coming from Crowley. And Crowley was certainly embarrassed himself. He would have miracled those emotions away had he been able to, but he couldn't. And so he had lived with them, for hundreds of years now, and had assumed that the angel sensed them, politely ignored them, and approached the whole matter with the stiff-upper-lip attitude he had so wholeheartedly embraced ever since he had started living in England. 

(Or perhaps he had chosen this country because its people's attitude suited him so well. Crowley had, of course, chosen this country because Aziraphale had.)

And Crowley had been happy enough to go along with it, ignoring it all. There had, perhaps, been the odd wistful gaze cast in the angel's direction, and every now and then he'd allowed himself a shameful wank with the angel's name on his lips. 

Not that there was anything shameful about wanking. It was something he had encouraged in all humans over the years, except when bottled-up sexual desire led to better results. But to be thinking of his erstwhile Enemy while he... well, he'd been too far gone for many, many years now.

Except that now, it was difficult to carry on as they had before. Anathema, bless that woman to Heaven and back, had dragged it all out into the open, and Aziraphale was of course unaware of what they had _really_ talked about at the party, but Crowley wasn't.

So now he would have to live with this new order of things, and attempt to rebuild the walls. Every single one of them.

* * *

For the next few months, he saw very little of Aziraphale. This was entirely intentional on Crowley's part. It didn't lessen the depth of his feelings; if anything, it made them stronger, which infuriated him. The worst moments were when he ran into the angel by accident, as they had been wont to do for millennia, and Aziraphale tried to tempt him (ha!) to a spot of lunch, or a show, or a walk... 

Sometimes Crowley would give in, but he would always regret it in the end, because the angel would affect him every time by uttering something surprising, or amusing, or shaping his mouth into that perfect little 'o' when he had just eaten something particularly delicious.

One day, they were walking in St James's Park, and Crowley was almost basking in the spring sunshine, almost forgetting that his existence was shit right at this moment, when Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, turned to him and said, “What is the _matter_ with you?”

Crowley opened his eyes. “What?”

“You're so short with me at the moment. I can hardly say two words without you snapping at me.” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” Crowley mirrored the angel's gesture, then changed his mind and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Nothing's the matter, angel.” He gave what he thought was a convincing, winning smile.

Aziraphale shook his head. “You're not fooling me.”

“I hardly think I'm accountable to you at every single moment of my life,” Crowley said in a harsh tone that surprised himself.

“See, that's what I mean!” Aziraphale threw up his hands in despair. “We were supposed to be friends, Crowley.”

“Not being enemies hardly qualifies as being friends,” Crowley heard himself say.

Aziraphale gave him a long, hard look.

“Fine,” he said, and turned on his heel.

* * *

Anathema was trying to put a name to the feeling that had pervaded her ever since she'd left Crowley's London flat that afternoon. It hadn't been her first visit: now that he showed no further inclination to come to Tadfield and sneer at her possessions, but had hinted that she was welcome to come over, she'd made it somewhat of a habit. He called it “continuing their lessons”, although she preferred to think of them as “conversations”. She found him actually surprisingly helpful and amenable when it came to magical matters, but increasingly morose and ill-tempered on a personal level.

She'd finally dared asked about the angel today, and he'd shot her a dark look. “Everything is absolutely fine, not that it's any of your fucking business,” he'd hissed. (In moments like these, she was actually inclined to believe his cock-and-bull-story about having started out as the serpent of Eden.)

So now, on the train back home, she was staring out the window and feeling... well. Worried?

Identifying one's own feelings hadn't been a huge part of her education, the latter having mainly focussed on identifying whatever the hell Agnes had been on about.

Maybe she shouldn't have burnt that second book. Maybe Agnes would have had some pointers for her on how to deal with this delicate situation. Then again, her ancestor hadn't really been one for delicacy. Anathema supposed that it ran in the family.

It was Newt, as per usual, who put his finger on it when she explained it all to him back home.

“So you're feeling guilty,” he said over his shoulder as he stirred the salad sauce. (He wasn't very good with electrical stoves, but boy did he make a good salad.)

“Guilty,” Anathema echoed.

“For making Crowley realize how he felt? And realize that Aziraphale didn't know?”

“Oh,” she said, sitting down heavily. “I guess.”

He turned to smile at her affectionately. “Don't worry. They've been on earth for six thousand years, if what they say is true. They'll work it out.”

“But what if they don't? What if I'm the one who separates them after all this time?”

Newt leaned over the table to tuck an errand strand of hair behind her ear. “Sweetie, don't take this the wrong way, but sometimes I think the whole being-personally-mentioned-in-a-book-of-prophecies thing has given you delusions of grandeur.”

She crossed her arms, pouting. “Whatever.”

“Just saying.” He turned back to his salad. “Did you want mozzarella or feta?”

“Either is fine.” She looked out the window. “Um. But inviting them to our summer solstice party won't do any harm, will it?”

He sighed. “Go on then.”

* * *

It wasn't as though Aziraphale hadn't seen Crowley lately. At first, he had stayed away of his own volition, fed up with the way the demon talked (or didn't talk) to him these days. Crowley had seemed similarly disinclined to meet as regularly as before, whatever the dickens his problem was, Aziraphale thought bitterly.

But they hadn't been able to keep it up. They needed each other, that one was clear to them both. And if Aziraphale had felt an even stronger pull towards Crowley ever since the apocalypse-that-wasn't, he supposed it was just because they were on their own now, no side but theirs, and naturally gravitated towards the other immortal being on earth.

So they had started meeting again, irregularly at first, then more often. Things almost went back to the way they had been. Crowley was a little absent-minded at times, and still a little short with him, but essentially as amiable as he ever managed to be.

Unfortunately, their delicately negiotated truce went balls up the first time they got properly drunk together again, which was at Anathema's summer solstice celebration.

“It's all so charmingly pagan,” Aziraphale heard himself say, his speech possibly slightly slurred, as they sat in front of the house, under an arc overgrown with ivy and jasmine, sharing a bottle of port.

Crowley laughed. “Listen to you. The model student's had a taste of misbehaving and finds he can't get enough of it.”

“I don't see what's so blasphemous about a lovely summer celebration,” Aziraphale protested.

As if on cue, the drumming behind the house grew louder, and they could hear chanting – something to do with a Horned God? Crowley chuckled, nudging Aziraphale, who blushed. “Well. Let them have their fun.”

“No argument from me, angel.”

Belatedly, Aziraphale returned the nudge. “This is nice.”

Crowley hummed in agreement, taking a large swig of port and handing the bottle back.

“You and me,” Aziraphale continued. “Longest day of the year. Sharing a bottle. Sharing a _connection_.”

Crowley had grown rather still next to him.

Aziraphale glanced at him, worried. “Did I say something stupid again?”

The demon shook his head, looking straight ahead. “'s fine, angel. A connection. Yeah.”

Aziraphale repressed a frustrated sigh. Why couldn't he _see_ what they were to each other now?

“I'd better check what she's doing,” Crowley said after a minute's silence. “Wouldn't want her to accidentally turn anyone into a deer.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale grabbed his arm as the demon made to leave. “I am so tired of this. Why can't we be...”

Crowley stared down at him, his expression not betraying anything.

“... who we were,” Aziraphale continued. “We used to be fine together, didn't we? And now there are all these invisible barriers, and I just don't _understand_.”

“There's nothing to understand, angel,” Crowley said, in a dangerous tone that made Aziraphale feel certain that there _was_ , and _why_ couldn't he see it? “Let go of my sleeve.”

Aziraphale didn't.

Crowley let out a frustrated growl. “You want to go back to being who we were?” he burst out. “You want to be amiable, meaningless drink buddies again? You want me to hang out at the bookshop while you do inventory? Things change, Aziraphale. I'm not who I was. I need some space. And I need you to let the fuck go of my sleeve.”

Aziraphale stared at him, open-mouthed, and forgot to hold on to him. Crowley set off towards the back of the house, practically at a run.

* * *

The ritual had been fun, Anathema felt. She wasn't really into the whole Litha / Horned God / midsummer night stuff, but she was sure that this was the kind of thing that people expected from her. The village witch had to deliver the goods. If nothing else, she'd brought a lot of different people who normally didn't hang out to bond at a nice little summer party (with some witchy stuff thrown in), so that couldn't be bad.

Speaking of bad, she most certainly didn't like the way Crowley was stalking through her garden, glaring at her plants.

She'd just made up her mind to go up to him, maybe engage him in some small talk and subtly probe into his bad mood, when she saw Aziraphale appearing around the side of the house. He, too, glanced at Crowley. He looked very worried, but she thought he also looked dangerously determined. This is going to get messy, she thought, imagining a loud confrontation in the midst of her party –

– instead, Aziraphale suddenly straightened up, stretched his arms wide and closed his eyes, and a visible tremor ran through his whole body –

– and there were _two_ Aziraphales, the second rising up out of the first, almost translucent, his wings spread out, his form and his gaze suffused with an entirely otherworldly glow as he hovered ten feet above the ground, looking down at –

– at himself and Crowley, who had rushed towards the first, earth-bound Aziraphale, bearing him up as he threatened to fall. Crowley looked terrified as he held Aziraphale by the shoulders, and Anathema could read his lips: Aziraphale, what's wrong? Talk to me. Anathema stared as earth-Aziraphale half-slumped against Crowley, muttering something, and as sky-Aziraphale watched the scene too, and there was a look of utter astonishment on his ethereal face, a look of sudden enlightenment, and a look of pure, unfiltered affection, and Anathema suddenly understood...

* * *

“Aziraphale, what's wrong? Talk to me,” Crowley said urgently, as the angel swayed dangerously on the spot, his eyes still closed. “Are you hurt?”

“'m fine,” muttered Aziraphale, but he wasn't fine at all, he was barely conscious, and Crowley didn't understand what was going on, he only knew that he was damned if he was going to lose Aziraphale again.

“You're not fine,” he said, desperately. “Look at me.” He tilted the angel's chin up.

After what felt like an eternity, Aziraphale opened his eyes. They were glazed over, almost as though he weren't entirely _there_.

Oh no he fucking hadn't.

Crowley looked up.

Aziraphale was _up there_ , looking down at them serenely, and Crowley's astonishment quickly gave way to anger. What the fuck does he think he's doing, he thought as he watched the angel's gaze linger on them, then turn heavenward, smiling beatifically, and Crowley suddenly feared that if he didn't act now, he was going to lose his angel forever.

“Stop it,” he hissed. “Come back to me _now_.”

That seemed to have done the trick. Sky-Aziraphale looked back down at him, still smiling, and then he felt the Aziraphale in his arms shudder violently as his projection came rushing back into him.

“Are you out of your angelic little mind?” he growled as he led Aziraphale towards a nearby bench, sitting him down gingerly while still supporting him by the shoulders. “Ethereal fucking projection? What the fuck do you think you're playing at? Don't you know how dangerous that is? You could have been discorporated, or recalled! You nearly were, at the end!”

Aziraphale opened his eyes, fixing them on him.

“I just needed to _see_ ,” was all he said, but he was gazing at him so intently, and there was so much raw emotion in his eyes, Crowley suddenly knew exactly what he meant.

He swallowed, finding it difficult to look at the angel.

“And did you?” he asked, addressing his shoes.

“Yes.”

He looked back up. Aziraphale was smiling at him as he had never done before. There was a wealth of emotion in his eyes which Crowley found hard to bear, but it also touched something deep within him, making his heart beat ridiculously fast.

“Well.” He swallowed again. “Good.”

“Yes.” It would surely burn him alive soon, that gaze.

“So you won't be doing anything stupid like that again,” Crowley said.

“Oh, I can't promise that,” Aziraphale smiled. 

“Aziraphale –”

The angel grinned, and Crowley suddenly realized how much he had missed that particular grin.

“I promise I won't ethereally project again anytime soon,” Aziraphale said. “Good enough?”

“Hardly,” Crowley muttered, but he couldn't help smiling a little in return. “Come on. I'm taking you home.”

* * *

“Will he be all right?” Anathema asked when Crowley had helped Aziraphale very carefully into the passenger seat of his car, and the angel had sat back and closed his eyes, looking absolutely shattered.

“He'll be fine. No thanks to you,” Crowley spat. Anathema felt Newt, standing beside her, shift uncomfortably at the demon's hostile tone, but she didn't much care; she'd heard far worse from him.

“Was that astral projection?” she asked, adopting the 'student' tone of voice that usually seemed to amuse him.

“Ethereal,” he corrected automatically. “Same thing, really, just no time or space travel involved. And it's bloody dangerous,” he scowled. “If you hadn't meddled...”

“Let it go, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. The car door was still open, but Anathema hadn't thought he'd listened to their conversation, as he still had his eyes closed. “She meant well. We should be grateful to her, all things considered.”

All the fight seemed to go out of the demon. It was actually fascinating to watch. He sighed, closed the passenger-side door gently and walked around the car, with not a single backward glance towards Anathema and Newt.

“See you,” Anathema said. He just shrugged non-committally, got in, and they were off.

“And you're welcome,” she added, watching the car speeding down the lane.

“Right. So I'm not sure I understand every detail of what just happened,” Newt said.

Anathema grinned, and then briefly permitted herself to jump up and down in glee. “I made Aziraphale realize that Crowley loves him!”

“You told him?”

“Oh, no. I think Crowley might very well have killed me if I'd done _that_.”

“So what did you do?” Newt asked, sounding a little wary, which she had to admit pleased her.

“Oh, nothing. Not today. I just asked Aziraphale whether he could sense love when it was directed at him. But that was months ago.”

“Right, I remember that. And?”

“And Aziraphale said that he couldn't, and I guess Crowley realized that Aziraphale didn't know how he felt about him, and instead of talking about it like a sensible adult, he started being really distant with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was so desperate to find out what the matter was that he astral-projected – or rather, ethereal-projected – so that he could see them from the outside.”

“Yeah, no, sorry. He what?”

“He projected his essence outside of his body and his essence watched his corporeal being and Crowley together and finally sensed that Crowley loved him.” She frowned at him. “It happened earlier in the garden. Right when Aziraphale collapsed. Didn't you see?”

“I was talking to Mrs Wensleydale,” Newt shrugged. “Anyway, I'm not sure I would've seen it.”

“Yeah, maybe not.”

“So how did you know Crowley was in love with him in the first place?”

“Oh, I thought that was really obvious, didn't you?”

Newt shrugged again. “So anyway. It was really Aziraphale, in the end, who did the figuring out bit.”

“Oh, but I get some small credit!” Anathema protested.

“Small and dubious,” Newt smiled, and kissed her.

* * *

The drive was even more quiet than the last time they'd come back from Tadfield, but it was – at least from Aziraphale's point of view – an amiable silence. He really was completely exhausted and didn't want to give Crowley further ammunition to admonish him for the tremendous risk he had taken, so he just lay back and closed his eyes, letting the music Crowley had turned on wash over him.

Although –

“Massenet?” he asked, turning to Crowley. “Really?”

Crowley shrugged, his eyes on the road. “You once said that you found him soothing.”

Aziraphale was touched that Crowley would remember after all those years (centuries!), and that he would forgo that hellish rock music he seemed to favour these days in order to put on a Romantic French composer, whom Aziraphale knew for certain Crowley himself didn't care for one jot.

He smiled and laid his hand over Crowley's, which was resting on the stick. “Thank you, my dear.”

“'s all right.”

Aziraphale removed his hand after a while, but he couldn't pretend to himself that the brief contact hadn't delighted him immensely.

Unfortunately, after having dropped Aziraphale off at his flat and steered him towards the rarely-used bed, the demon seemed to want to leave immediately.

“You should try to sleep for once,” he said gruffly. “I'll come round in the morning?”

“All right,” Aziraphale said faintly, and then he screwed up all of his courage before he could think better of it. “Although I think I'd have a better chance of sleeping if you... I mean to say. You could... stay?”

Crowley shot him a quick look. He looked... almost frightened?

“Please,” Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley sighed. “All right.”

They lay side by side, Crowley under the thickest blanket Aziraphale had been able to find, his back turned to the angel. After a long while during which Aziraphale thought the demon had drifted off to sleep, Crowley broke the silence.

“You know people usually close their eyes when they try to sleep,” he said.

Aziraphale let out a breath of laughter. “Good point. I'll try that in a minute.”

After another little while, Crowley turned around, gazing at Aziraphale. His beautiful eyes were, for once, not hidden behind those ghastly shades.

“What was it like?” he asked.

Oh, how well they knew each other, Aziraphale thought. It was preposterous now, to think that he had been trying to convince himself that Crowley and he were no more than indifferent acquaintances. They knew each other so well that the demon didn't even need to ask what was keeping Aziraphale awake, what he was thinking of as he stared, unseeing, up at the ceiling.

“It was like... I wouldn't exactly say coming home. I mean my old home. But it was definitely like being closer. To Her.”

“I almost thought I'd lost you to Her for a second,” Crowley said quietly.

“I'm sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale turned, facing Crowley and reaching out. Their fingers interlaced easily, and Aziraphale stroked his thumb alongside Crowley's hand. 

It felt so natural. Why were they not like this more often?

“I don't think there was any real danger of that. But you never know.”

Crowley looked at their joined hands for a long while, then asked, “Do you miss Her, sometimes?”

Aziraphale nodded. To his dismay, he could feel tears prickling somewhere behind his eyes.

“I can't feel Her very well, down here. I mean, I made my choice. But it was a choice against Them, not Her.”

“Of course,” said Crowley. Once again, he understood him perfectly.

“But sometimes I wonder whether She thinks...” Aziraphale shook his head. It was sinful Pride, thinking he was so important that She even spared a thought for him next to all Her other thoughts. “If She even considers me, that is. Perhaps it doesn't matter to Her at all, what I did. In the grand scheme of things. But if She does think of me, I wonder whether She thinks I turned my back on Her.”

And now, there really were tears sliding down his nose and cheek. How embarrassing.

Crowley raised his free hand to wipe them away, fixing Aziraphale with an earnest look. “I'm sure She doesn't.”

“Because I never will,” Aziraphale felt the need to clarify.

“Of course you won't, angel.” Crowley seemed to struggle with himself for a long moment, then he added, in a very low voice, “And I won't ever turn mine on you.”

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale breathed, and kissed him.

* * *

The angel had turned around soon afterward, and Crowley had demonstrated the human concept of spooning, which had made Aziraphale laugh and then finally drift off to sleep. Crowley had followed into the dreamless soon after, although there had perhaps been one or two dreams of the less than chaste variety, where that one brotherly kiss (it hadn't been any more than that, had it?) had turned into more.

When he awoke just before daybreak, he had his back to Aziraphale again, but he could feel the angel watching him.

He turned around to find the angel propped up on his elbow, pretending to only just gaze up from his book.

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale said softly.

He wouldn't mind waking up like this every morning, Crowley thought.

“Didja sleep?” he mumbled.

“I did.”

“What you readin'?”

Aziraphale showed Crowley the title, and he snorted.

“ _Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes_ ,” he read aloud.

“It's very interesting,” Aziraphale said defensively. “Though this whole idea of God copulating with angels to make the universe, well...”

Crowley couldn't help it, he giggled a little. “As if anything like that could ever really happen in Heaven.”

Aziraphale blinked slowly, carefully closed his book and put it behind him on the bedside table. Then he turned back to Crowley.

“They do seem to place an unnecessarily strong emphasis on sexual abstinence,” he said, and then he was kissing Crowley, _really_ kissing him, and it was a good thing Crowley neither needed to breathe nor have a regular heartbeat, because he was pretty sure one of those functions would have given out on him.

“Angel,” he gasped when they broke apart.

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured, stroking through his hair. 

Crowley wanted him so much it hurt. The impulsive demon in him was screaming for him to get on with it, to make full use of his pliable, willing partner. But his alter ego – what he had come to call his human self – knew that he couldn't risk losing the angel in the long run.

“I...” Fuck, this was hard. But he had to say it. “I don't want you to... you know. Feel obliged or something. To continue down _that_ road.”

Aziraphale just laughed. “Whyever would I feel obliged?”

“I dunno. I mean, you never showed any inclination to before. I wasn't even sure how you felt about me.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale said simply, looking a little astonished at it himself. 

“You...” Crowley swallowed, hard, as he felt his heart swell inside his chest (shouldn't be physically possible, he thought wildly).

“I think Anathema helped me figure it out,” Aziraphale continued, a little breathlessly. “I've never been one of those head-over-heels-love-at-first-sight-types.”

“No surprises there,” Crowley said dryly. 

“Exactly,” Aziraphale laughed. “I've never really allowed myself to feel it unless I knew it was returned. But I'd forgotten that I couldn't sense it.” He interlaced their fingers as he had last night. “When, well, people in the past expressed an interest.” Again, he looked mortified by the mere suggestion, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Aziraphale, it's all right, you can acknowledge that people have been in love with you in the past. It's not Pride.” He shook his head fondly. “And why wouldn't they.” He tucked an errant curl behind the angel's ear. They were getting rather long these days and he loved it.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, closing his eyes briefly at Crowley's touch. “You really...”

“I thought I'd been really obvious about it.” Crowley ducked his head. “But I guess however much I hate to admit it, Anathema helped me too. I _had_ assumed that you could feel it.”

Aziraphale made an odd little movement, like breathing in deeply through his pores. “I think I can, now.”

“Good,” Crowley said, trying to ignore how much it still embarrassed him. He was a _demon_ , for Lucifer's sake. But as much as he had always rebelled, first against Heaven, then in a more subtle way against Hell, it looked like he was helpless against the onslaught that was Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

Who was kissing him again. And really, no angel, unconventional as he may be, had any right to kiss like that.

“I never thought you'd go in for this sort of thing,” Crowley confessed as they broke apart again.

Aziraphale's smile widened. “I don't know if you've noticed, but I've never been very good at the whole temperance business,” he shrugged. 

“I'm shocked, angel,” Crowley grinned and buried his head in Aziraphale's chest.

“The way I see it,” Aziraphale continued serenely, his hands moving ever lower down Crowley's body, “We were issued these bodies, so we might as well use them.”

Crowley huffed out a laugh against Aziraphale's chest.

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, it's just... sounds a lot like a pickup line from back in the 70s.”

“Fair enough.” Aziraphale chuckled. “Did it work?”

“Pretty much every time,” Crowley confirmed and climbed on top of Aziraphale.

If there was anything that could still surprise Crowley now, it wasn't that they both turned out to be built _exactly_ like humans, down to every last detail, nor that they were both already hard and straining with want – it was that Aziraphale immediately pushed their trousers and underpants down, took them both in a very capable hand and brought them to a shouted climax within less than a minute.

And in that moment of utter abandon as they both came, Crowley not only saw a blinding white light behind his eyelids as human males sometimes reported seeing, but felt himself transported to a place of complete, wonderful, sheltered warmth that reminded him more than a bit of –

“Heaven,” he whispered into the angel's shoulder.

“Rather,” Aziraphale breathed, still holding him tight.

“No, I meant –” he hesitated. Actually, if the angel understood it as a judgment of what had just happened, that was fine too. “Never mind.”

“You meant it as a curse?” Aziraphale inquired lightly. He had started stroking circles on the small of Crowley's back, his other hand still holding their softening and now decidedly stickier members.

“Not this time,” Crowley laughed, and flicked a lazy hand to clean them up. “It's just...”

He grabbed a blanket and covered them both in it as he rolled off the angel. A pretty suave move, he thought. He was glad it had worked. “I went somewhere when I – just then. Somewhere really bright and warm. It reminded me a little, you see. Of.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale was actually looking a bit sheepish. “I think that was me.”

“You what?” Crowley raised himself up on an elbow to look at the angel.

“It sounds very much like my place of refuge,” Aziraphale explained. “Somewhere like, but not exactly Heaven. But warm, and sheltered, and cosy. I go there sometimes when I'm stressed. Or, apparently, climaxing.”

“And you took me this time,” Crowley shook his head. “Really, angel. Way to freak out the demon in your bed.”

“I'm sorry.” Aziraphale looked stricken. “Was it awful for you?”

Crowley laughed. “I was joking. It was... good. Just like Heaven but without the boring-slash-oppressive bits.”

The angel smiled. “Yes. I think I know what you mean.” He was stroking Crowley's hair again. Crowley was resisting the urge to hiss with pleasure. The angel was so bright to look at, it almost hurt his eyes.

“Sorry about, um.” He averted his eyes, focusing instead on his own hand mapping the contours of Aziraphale's body. He'd done that before, of course, but never with his hand. “I usually last a bit longer.”

“Well, there's been a bit of a build-up, hasn't there,” Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. “And it's not as though we can't do it again. We could do it many, many times a day, if you like. We're not exactly human, after all.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Crowley thought. (He had wisely chosen not to think out loud.) The angel had _so_ done this before, and Crowley was in over his head. 

Nothing for it but to play it cool. “Very true, that.”

And so, within a minute, he was back on top of Aziraphale, the one place he'd wanted to be for a long time, and before long they divested themselves of the rest of their clothes, and he could finally explore the angel's body with his mouth (with his _tongue_ ), and he had just kissed and sucked an agonizingly slow trail down towards Aziraphale's cock, when the angel said, “Come inside me, Crowley. I know you want to.”

Oh Lord of Darkness, he was _so_ in over his head. 

But there was no way he was going to let the angel win.

Staying where he was, he said, “So you didn't want me to...?” and looked down meaningfully.

“Oh, well, you might as well go for it if you're there,” Aziraphale shrugged, and then they both burst out laughing.

It was the most beautiful thing, the way the angel's head fell back onto the cushion and he let out a heartfelt groan as Crowley took him into his mouth. He gave it his best – he had done this a few times, and Aziraphale was entitled to the full extent of his expertise – and the angel obliged him by moaning and sighing and fisting his hands into Crowley's hair. Crowley had just found a good rhythm, working Aziraphale's cock further and further into his mouth, when –

“Hold on a second,” Aziraphale panted.

Crowley obediently pulled back.

“Not that I'm not enjoying this,” the angel explained, his voice rough and his face flushed, “but I can't seem to concentrate very well when you're...” He trailed off. Then he closed his eyes and miracled a small bottle into his hand.

“Olive oil?” Crowley grinned. “So you've either not done _that_ since Ancient Greece...”

“... or I'm perhaps a little old-fashioned?” suggested Aziraphale mildly as he handed him the bottle.

“Good point, that,” conceded Crowley.

They did it at least seventeen times that morning.

(Crowley lost count after number seventeen, which was a memorable affair of Aziraphale standing up and being fucked good and proper against the kitchen counter. Crowley had started out nice and slow, pulling out completely every time, then pushing back in slowly as he pulled the angel's hips towards him, and he was observing the beads of sweat forming on the back of Aziraphale's neck when the angel, bracing himself against the countertop, half-turned his head and growled, “That's enough teasing, Crowley. _Harder_.”

Crowley lost himself entirely after that.)

When he next raised his head from where it was sheltered, right under Aziraphale's chin and above the soft golden down growing on the angel's chest, Crowley looked out the window and realized that the sun had risen again and an entire day and night had passed.

* * *

**Epilogue: Anathema**

Anathema, who despite everything was still worried about Crowley and Aziraphale, more worried than she would admit to Newt, decided one afternoon to try her hand at crystal-gazing. She'd taken a crystal ball home with her from America after Crowley had declared it “not entirely rubbish” (which was high praise coming from him). 

He'd said that all the incantations and all the smoke and incense and what-have-you were useless, though: all you needed, apparently, was a modicum of magical talent and a very clear image in your mind of the person you wanted to see.

She had that all right. There was no way she was forgetting the way Aziraphale had looked at Crowley.

So she sat down and concentrated. All she wanted was a glimpse of how they were getting along now. She hoped she hadn't made things worse. She hoped they were at least talking. She hoped –

A shockwave of enormous magnitude pulsed out of the ball, throwing her three feet into the air and back against the wall.

“Honey?”

Newt, running down the stairs.

“What happened?” His hand on her cheek.

“I –” She gazed up at him blearily. His gorgeous eyes. 

“What did you do?” he asked warily.

“I tried to see whether Crowley and Aziraphale were all right,” she whispered.

Newt's eyes traveled to the ball, still sitting untarnished on the kitchen table.

“And they blocked you or something?”

“No, I think...” She started to laugh. First it was a chuckle, low in her throat, then a full-on belly laugh as she grabbed on to his bicep, and she finally felt the full effect of that particular shockwave as blood rushed towards her groin and her mind was suffused with desire. “They're shagging like bunnies. And so are we. Come on.”

“Oh,” said Newt, pulling her upright. “Okay.”

  
THE END


End file.
